Proper ladies and gentlemen
by Bella
Summary: What if our favourite Crawleys had met before the famous introduction at Crawley House? You see, I always felt that Matthew "overperformed" just a bit to express his embarrassment of having been overheard and in awe of Mary's beauty. So what if he had reason to be truly embarrassed? And why did Mary so very readily succumb to Pamuk's persuasion in her bedroom? Mary's POV.


**Summary:** What if our favourite Crawleys had met before the famous introduction at Crawley House? You see, I always felt that Matthew "overperformed" just a bit to express his embarrassment of having been overheard and in awe of Mary's beauty. So what if he had reason to be truly embarrassed? And why did Mary so very readily succumb to Pamuk's persuasion in her bedroom? Mary's POV.

**Disclaimer:** None of it is mine except the bold Lady Eleanor.

_January 1912_

Bored sipped Lady Mary Crawley from her glass of exquisite champagne and looked indifferently towards the dance floor of the Claridge. Dozens of couples swayed and swished more or less in tune. Among them the bride and groom swayed gently to a slow waltz for the about 100th time this evening. One might easily come to the conclusion that the young couple was indeed in love. How gauche! She smiled cynically while fanning some air. It was just too hot in here with 150 wedding guests and easily twice the number of candles. Why didn't they just open the windows or the doors leading out to the terrace? At least for a moment to let them all have some fresh air? All in all she didn't know what to make of this wedding held in a hotel in London instead of the bride's family home Roslyn Hall over in Ireland. She smirked. The most probable reason was that Roslyn Hall couldn't host 150 guests. It was a rather modest manor after all, as she was told in strictest confidence.

She turned slightly on her chair, when she heard the soft crackling of silk and slightly elevated breathing next to her. Oh, it was just her friend and her dance partner.

"Thank you Lady Eleanor for this dance. I hope you will bestow me the honour of another dance on your card come next season in London?"

"I will looking forward to your calling, Mr. Longley."

The young man flushed a bit and bit hastily his goodbye, just in time to ask the chaperone of the next unsuspecting lady in a most pretty manner, if he may have the next dance of her charge.

"Good riddance!" lady Eleanor swore under her breath, smilingly charmingly at the old Lord Wexton, who was passing by with the even older Duke of Wellesley.

"What's wrong?" Lady Mary valiantly contained her smile. It wouldn't do to have her best friend think, she found her actually amusing.

"One piece of advice, Mary. Don't you ever, EVER dance with Frederick Longley. He's most dreadful. Would you think, he counts the steps under his breath and he even stepped once onto my left foot!"

"Dreadful, indeed." Mary commiserated with her. Really dancing was the easiest thing in the world. How so many among them could be so abysmally at it she would never understand.

"At least he'll inherit the Mortaine fortune and the title. I guess that makes up for his very much felt shortcomings on the dance floor. What about you? Won't you dance?"

"Oh, I don't know. Patrick's around somewhere. Probably having a cigar and a glass of port while telling his friends dirty jokes or something. Why should I care?"

"Well, he is your fiancé after all."

"Sshhh, not so loud, Elli. I really can't have it announced to the four winds. Besides, he isn't."

"He isn't what?"

"My fiancé."

"But I thought your parents and Patrick…"

"Yes, they'd be delighted, if I did say yes. Wouldn't it be neat after all? But I haven't. And I shall never do."

"Mary…."

"No, Elli. I will protract as long as I human possibly can. At least they are decent enough to actually ask for my consent before making it officially. Not that it would help me one bit."

"I suppose Patrick isn't a bad sort of man."

"Oh please. He's a total bore, doing nothing else but translating some old Greek texts of some forgotten philosopher or other. We have nothing in common. NOTHING! He hates London, the society, motors and electricity, really anything modern since the invention of the steam engine and has absolutely no ambition beyond preserving the Downton estate for the next generation. Downton could be so much more than it is. We could host the most splendid balls, the most talked over hunts. The most influential men could come and go, have clandestine political meetings of the highest order, but no. Nothing shall ever disturb the quiet and peaceful life of the Earl of Grantham."

"You mean your father, his cousin James or Patrick?"

"All of them, actually. And do you know what the most infuriating thing is? Nothing's official, but everyone suspects they're in the know. Do you know how many times I've been asked to dance? Three times in about four hours. Even Edith got more twirled around than me to put insult to injury." She laughed suddenly. "Would you believe it? She started reading Aristotle. Naturally she can't make head or tails of it, stupid as she is. She'd do anything to gain a few moments of Patrick's attention. Pathetic! He really is too polite. Last time I saw them talking for an hour in the library while he was rather patiently trying to explain it, thus her bird brain could understand. It was too funny."

"You know, I don't find her stupid or pathetic, when she tries to take an interest in what's important to Patrick. I think it's indeed a wise move for a future bride."

"Whatever do you mean? Edith as Countess of Grantham?! Oh, please! That'll be the day. Anyway, back to the real issue here. My dance card is mostly empty. Patrick hates dancing. So he spun me around exactly once out of duty. On the other side, he's so jealous that he scares off any other man below the age of 40. Elli, I need to find a better match than Patrick and soon. Or I will be chained down to a life of duty and boredom at Downton."

"But you could do so much with it! You said yourself. And it's Downton. All you have EVER wanted in your life, as you claim. Isn't it worth the greatest sacrifice? If Patrick is so uninspired, maybe you can do what you want with it and he wouldn't care."

"No, I couldn't. Neither Papa, James or Patrick would ever allow it. It's not ladylike to put one's nose in the ledgers or discuss things of more importance than whether to invite the neighbours to dinner the following week or flower arrangements. Not that they'd listen in the first place to anything I have to say. There's got to be more to life than giving birth to the next heir while looking decorative against the wallpaper. It simply has to." Lady Mary wailed elegantly and quietly.

Lady Eleanor Farnesworth gazed at her friend calculating. Coming to a decision she nodded to herself.

"There IS more to life. You only have to snatch bits and pieces here and there, take what you find and make the most out of it."

"What do you mean?"

"Take a lover, Mary, what else?"

"WHAT? But that would be… I would be impure. I would ruin myself and my family. People would talk!"

Lady Eleanor rolled her eyes.

"Don't portray yourself more naïve than you are. There's more than one way to skin a cat. You don't have to risk pregnancy or your virtue to have fun." She whispered behind her fan. She looked around. "See? Take him for instance."

"Who?"

"Him, over there." Mary followed Eleanor's discrete pointing and watched a tall blond man in profile talking to another man over a glass of champagne and bursting out into some merry laughter. After he had calmed down, he rose his glass in a toast to the other man, which was acknowledged by a wide smile. When he turned to a servant to hand him his empty glass, Mary got a full glimpse of him. Well, he wasn't too bad looking, that is, if you liked flaxen hair and a boyish face that looked as if there was still some baby fat left over from childhood. If she allowed herself the luxury of a preference, she'd say she was partial to dark hair.

"I think he's one of the groom's friends from university. Middle-class, obviously. I've watched him discretely for a while now. He hasn't danced once with any of us. So obviously he knows his place and sticks to his crowd."

"Maybe he just doesn't know how?"

Eleanore ignored Mary's snide remark. It wasn't important for her plans for him.

"He's not bad looking either, you have to admit."

"To a degree if you like the type." She dismissed. "Do you know his name?"

Eleanore allowed herself a ladylike giggle behind her fan.

"Sweety, for what I have in mind for him, I don't need to know his name. Anyway, looks are not the most important thing. Mary, look for a man from the lower classes, but a man with just enough ambition; A man who's got something to loose, but who's in no way connected or influential. That blond piece over there fits the description well enough. He's probably the pride and joy of his entire family. He knows he needs the protection of the House of Nesborough to advance and he won't do anything to jeopardise it."

"But one impossibly could… He's not one of us. You're jesting."

"So you think he's so far beneath you. Well, you're right in that aspect. But look at it from another angle. Look around. Really look. What do you see, when you look at the men worth marrying? Do you see how fed they up with everything? How bored? Well, manners and rituals mask it very well, but fact is, Mary, we ARE bored stiff, overfed with our meaningless life. We're left with nothing wanting. Our every wish gets fulfilled. We've all got nothing meaningful to do, Mary. And most of all we desperately long for some excitement in our days; something, anything that's out of the daily routine and breaks us out of our numbness and complacency. Some days I think, we need a war, just to FEEL something.

Listen carefully, Mary. He's ripe for the picking my dear, I'd say. Obviously he's very much taken in by all the up to now unknown splendour. He wouldn't jeopardise his small foot in the door. They never do. No, they're so very eager to please in the hopes it might be to their advantage. That's the most delightful thing about them. And if you're done with him, throw him away and move on to the next. Never enjoy them twice lest they get any ideas of you forming a tender attachment to them. You will find them anywhere these days. These social upstarts and nouveaux riches sprout like weed since the invention of the steam engine. No class, no breeding, but think money makes up for it. Just think of these dreadful Americans with their ear-splitting accent coming over waving their dollars around to buy them a title as if you can buy nobility like you can buy the matching manor. Oh, I didn't mean..." Lady Eleanor raised her hand contritely against her mouth.

"Yes, you did." Mary narrowed her eyes. "But let's slide it for the moment. But what, if you get caught?"

"Should you get caught, say he attempted to force himself on you. It's the word of a lady against the word of a nobody. No one would believe him."

"But that would destroy his life."

"So what? He's of no importance."

"And what if he doesn't want to…?"

"Mary, you're beautiful. Besides, men are all the same; the thrill of the forbidden, the idea to lay with a woman, in our case a lady. It's irresistible to them. They're like dogs in heat and for once you're in the position of power. Remember, the sole purpose of the lower classes is to serve us. So let them _serve_ you."

"Elli, have you done this before?"

"Dear Mary, I sense the same hunger for life in you, the same indomitable spirit and the same rage against the unfairness of the world that forces us to be meek and voiceless so that men are pleased with us and feel superior. But we are not. We are FALCONS, Mary. Maybe we didn't make the rules, but we bend them to our liking while making men look the fool. You know what? Find yourself your own middle class stud and put him through his paces. That blond piece is mine for tonight. Just watch and learn."

Smiling Lady Eleanor walked over to the punch table and got the young man in question to hand her a glass. A minute later Mary found them in a lively conversation. Surprised she watched how Eleanor managed to let herself be led onto the terrace only a couple of minutes later.

Mulling over what Mary had learnt, she didn't know what to think. What had Eleanor meant, when she said there were more ways to skin a cat? When man and wife lay together, it was to create a child. How could a woman preserve her virtue and avoid becoming with child during _that_? Mary's curiosity was wildly aroused, but she never would lower her guard and admit her ignorance in all matters of the flesh to Eleanor. On the one hand, it was wickedly delightful to imagine clandestine meetings. On the other hand… the shame over her ruin would just about kill her and her father. Besides, where and when in Downton would she ever meet such a man? And in London she was constantly under surveillance during the season. But just to think, one thing she would have as her very own, just one thing under her control, one amorous encounter to sustain her for a life-time of duty and boredom, one thing to look back upon in years to come and to cherish.

But the risk …. She decided she'd postpone further thoughts on this and paid more attention to the dancers. Desperately longing to be there, to be in the careful arms of a rich, handsome and charming, but most of all skilled dancer who would lead her effortlessly through the most complicated steps, wouldn't that be simply divine? They would garner such attention. She would be the envy of all ladies and have all the wanting eyes of the gentlemen on her. She would radiate power and beauty. She would be the centre of attention, the most sought after lady in the room, she'd be the talk of the season, her name would be mentioned in "The Lady" and the society pages of "The Times". She would dictate fashion and decide who was in and who was out.

Apropos out, where was Eleanor?! Surely, she couldn't be still on the terrace? How long did it take for one to get a bit of fresh air? A thought entered her mind, more a memory really. A couple of years ago she had once caught /observed the stable boy with one of the washerwomen working at the Abbey. They had looked as if they had enjoyed their kissing very much and had made some most peculiar noises. It had made Mary feel most peculiar, too, in her stomach and she had run away, suddenly afraid. And when Sebastian Havisham had kissed her behind a tree in her first season and when Oliver Westmoore had done it in her second season, it had made her feel a bit like that time years ago. She debated for a moment, if she best step out for a moment to look for Eleanor. Maybe she needed her help? Wasn't it her duty to look out for a friend? Indeed, it was concern that drove her feet towards the dark hotel terrace. It couldn't possibly be curiosity!

Stepping out into the bitter cold night air she blinked, momentarily blind. It was quiet. Where were they? She stepped further out and looked around and ... saw them. There they were, almost completely concealed by darkness at the furthest part away from the doors. She had crossed her arms behind his neck, pressed up against him and kissed the man's mouth. His arms hang loosely at his side, before he raised them and let his hands hover over her waist, then firmly grip her shoulders. Mary was confused if the noises they made were of pleasure or of protest.

She started and froze like the couple, when she heard Patrick calling for her.

"Mary, what are you doing out here all alone? Come inside. It's time to go."

He didn't glance around, but led Mary purposefully back to the gathering.

At the last possible moment, Mary turned around once more. His hands had moved from her shoulders to her hands to pull her even closer or to push her away? She didn't know to tell. And the last she heard was Eleanor's faint sigh: "Oh sweety…."

She pursed her lips in disgust and let herself be led away by her fiancé. Maybe Patrick was a bore, but at least he was a proper gentleman.

_September 1912_

She heard a man's raised voice from the hall leading to the parlour. Listening to his arrogance she felt her hackles rise. Who did he think he was? When she entered, prepared to be full of grace and display the finest manners no matter what, he whirled around and she enjoyed with the ghost of a smirk that he, unlike her, was unable to control his utter and mortified surprise to see her. So he recognised her immediately, too. He must have seen her, since she had stood unlike him in full light streaming out from the ball room. So he knew that she knew what he had done that night and with whom and that she knew that he knew that she knew. Good! And with a harder kick than necessary into Diamond's sides she rode off with Lynch having the satisfaction that he also knew very well that she had dismissed his feeble apology and would never think him worthy of her regard. Although why it was so important to her that he knew how very little she thought of him, she didn't question too closely. Probably because he got everything she lost, when Patrick died and he hadn't even the grace to be grateful for the wealth bestowed undeservedly on him.

_The beginning (really)_


End file.
